Page 23 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
But Arabella crept through the house and set up her easel just outside the stables. The men who worked there shared her secret, seeming to enjoy the conspiracy with her against her father. And, of course, her grandmother knew, too.
“Morning, m’lady,” young Adam said, doffing his cap as he opened the stable doors to let the horses out for the day.
“Good morning, Adam,” she replied, dipping her head in concession.
“Beautiful morning for it,” he said. He pulled the heavy iron bolt of the door across—the sound of freedom—and Arabella smiled, the feel of it settling into her soul. The noise signalled the beginning of her morning, of her own small patch of freedom.
“Indeed it is,” she replied, turning her attention to the landscape beyond, her lady’s maid just behind her with her things.
It was these early hours that Arabella loved best. She settled her canvas on the easel, then arranged her paints in front of her. The painting of the land was almost complete, but she wouldn’t rush it, not like the paintings she did for her father.
This was a labour of love, and she was attentive to the colours, shapes, and patterns. It was as much part of her as the land itself, and she had poured her heart out onto that canvas. It was, too, the most beautiful, realistic painting she had ever produced.
Dawn was such a beautiful time of day, with yellows and oranges stretching out across the horizon. As Arabella’s brush swept across the canvas, capturing the heat and light of the sun, she felt calm, at peace, like she never had before. She felt free, even from within her prison, and it brought her joy to paint the light, bright colours of dawn instead of the darkness and shadows of the Lord’s Society.
It was always this, always the landscapes, that put her in such a happy place, and she would never give them up, no matter what her father said. Within minutes of bathing in the new sun, Arabella felt the exhaustion melt away from her, replaced by a gentle energy that thrummed within her.
“My darling Arabella, you become more talented by the day.”
Arabella smiled, not needing to turn to find her grandmother hovering beside her, looking between the painting and the landscape in front of her.
“You are too kind, Grandmother.”
She could sense Priscilla’s pride and kindness coming off her in waves. Her frail body was thin—too thin—and her soft, leathery face was lined with wrinkles. She held a hand to her throat as if overwhelmed by the beauty of the art.
“It is only as I see it, Arabella dear. It’s such a shame you can’t display these images. You would be famed throughout the land.”
Arabella smiled sadly, though not even her grandmother’s words could taint her mood. “I care not for other people’s opinions any longer,” she said truthfully. “I have displayed many paintings and received many compliments, but this … this is just for me and those I love. I have no desire for the world to see it.”
“And that, Arabella dear, is why it is as beautiful as it is.”
Finally, she turned and looked at Priscilla. She smiled up at the old woman just as a footman rushed out with a chair and small table, a maid following behind with tea on a tray.
“You’re awake early, Grandmother. Is everything all right?”
Priscilla frowned, her eyes focused on the hills in front of them. “Whether it is old age or worry, I know not, but I rarely sleep well these days.”
“Worry?” Arabella dipped her paintbrush in the clear water, swirling it around. A burst of orange spread through it, muddying it.
Her lips in a pout, Priscilla’s eyes glanced across the trees to the fields beyond. She sighed. “When I see you here, painting in the mornings, I see how you could be if only you had a chance.”
Arabella could feel the heaviness slowly descend on her again, and she wished above anything that her grandmother would stop. She wanted to have this moment, this peace. She got it so rarely, and it felt unfair that Priscilla would ruin it, even if the old woman had a good heart and only intended to do the right thing for Arabella.
But her grandmother was tired with worry, and Arabella wanted her to unburden herself if she could. She would take on that burden, no matter what it meant for her. She wanted to free Priscilla as much as Priscilla wanted to free her.
“It is my favourite time of day,” Arabella admitted.
She picked up a little olive green on her brush, mixing it with a touch of white to lighten it, then dabbed at the trees that had already dried, building up the colour bit by bit. Seeing the flatness of colour gradually turn into depth with light and shade was one of her favourite parts of painting landscapes, seeing a picture turn into reality—or as close to it as she could get.
“It was your mother’s favourite time of day, too,” Priscilla replied.
Arabella paused. Her grandmother rarely talked about her mother, Priscilla’s daughter-in-law, and though she liked it when she did, she never pushed it. She saw how much it hurt.
“Did she paint, too?”
“No, child.” Priscilla shook her head. “That talent is yours and yours alone. She loved to go walking in the early hours, though. She said there was something magical in it, something about the air that buoyed one up and set one on the right course for the day.”
Arabella added a little more white to her green, adding highlights to the trees where the rising sun hit them. “She sounds like she was a wise woman,” she replied.
